brocade, were placed about the room. Small table lamps with diamond tears dripping from the shades provided soft highlights and threw shadows over other corners of the room. The white, the touches of gold, and the sparkling lamps made all the perfectly tailored tuxedos and perfectly styled frocks seem even more perfectly sophisticated.
One-quarter of the people wearing those tuxedos and frocks were well-heeled blacks, easily recognizable from the theater world. The rest were whites: socialites, local politicians, and Harlem club owners.
Negrotarians, thought David, a whole room of them, gathered under Nella’s roof.
The Hardings had decorated their party with Negro artists who were the darlings of every critic’s pen. The actress Selena Ashburn, who boasted that she could drink any man under the table, stood holding an empty flute glass in one hand and a plate of appetizers in the other. Roland Pierce, the fabled jazz musician, was talking to friends in one corner. The poet Julian Woodstock was telling a joke in another. His group also included the opera singer Sylvia Burroughs, composer Geoffrey Gerard, and Broadway comedian Fannie Howell.
No one from the Movement, thought David with relief. But then a little voice said: No one you recognize. He recalled that he’d had little chance to become acquainted with the New York office staff before being sent south.
David felt as set apart as a dead man walking among the living. So much vivacity and sparkling wit, it exhausted him to see it. The hum of happy voices irritated him. Anger flashed through him.
So many of them must’ve known her—
His sister had been dead three weeks and now these people were carrying on with asinine jocularity. As though nothing had happened. As though the world was still right. As though he weren’t a man who was walking on the ceiling.
What was he doing here? How long would he have to hold out in this room of blinding, burnished, specious smiles? Not a single guest was standing alone. All stood in small conversational rings. There were no outcasts. Every guest had been carefully chosen for his or her ability to fit in. Apparently, to stand alone, as he preferred to do, would be unforgivable.
But then his observant eye picked out several tense faces hidden behind the grins of forced glee. The Hardings had indulged in a certain malevolent sadism. They’d invited the most hated critics of several artists in the room— then mercilessly abandoned them to one another.
David became aware of a warm presence nearby.
He turned at the touch of fingertips on his elbow. A sweetly scented woman had materialized at his side. Their eyes locked. He had never seen eyes like hers: a deep sapphire blue, set under long, black lashes and slender plucked eyebrows. Captivating eyes, mesmerizing. But for all their wide-open charm, they held an unmistakable shrewdness. Despite their apparent warmth, they chilled him: a knowledgeable woman, but predatory. Her platinum-blond hair was done in finger waves that framed her face. It was a lovely face, like a doll’s, but faint rings under her eyes and a certain hollowness to her cheeks hinted at an excessively indulgent life. Despite this, her hair still glistened and her ivory skin had a soft luster. Her lips, painted a deep burgundy, were the only points of intense color on her face, and they were moist and provocative. Her shimmering gown could have been liquefied gold, the way it flowed over her curves. She was, without doubt, one of the most alluring women in the room, but she left him cold. She smiled, flashing two rows of tiny polished teeth.
“I’m Nella. You must be David.”
Her voice was husky. She was standing quite close to him. Her scent, a heady mixture of Chanel, gin, and cigarettes, enveloped him. She extended her hand and he took it. Her hand was small and soft––
Like a leopard’s paw–– with smooth, sharp nails that gleamed in the demi-light.
“Touched that you could make it,”
One-quarter of the people wearing those tuxedos and frocks were well-heeled blacks, easily recognizable from the theater world. The rest were whites: socialites, local politicians, and Harlem club owners.
Negrotarians, thought David, a whole room of them, gathered under Nella’s roof.
The Hardings had decorated their party with Negro artists who were the darlings of every critic’s pen. The actress Selena Ashburn, who boasted that she could drink any man under the table, stood holding an empty flute glass in one hand and a plate of appetizers in the other. Roland Pierce, the fabled jazz musician, was talking to friends in one corner. The poet Julian Woodstock was telling a joke in another. His group also included the opera singer Sylvia Burroughs, composer Geoffrey Gerard, and Broadway comedian Fannie Howell.
No one from the Movement, thought David with relief. But then a little voice said: No one you recognize. He recalled that he’d had little chance to become acquainted with the New York office staff before being sent south.
David felt as set apart as a dead man walking among the living. So much vivacity and sparkling wit, it exhausted him to see it. The hum of happy voices irritated him. Anger flashed through him.
So many of them must’ve known her—
His sister had been dead three weeks and now these people were carrying on with asinine jocularity. As though nothing had happened. As though the world was still right. As though he weren’t a man who was walking on the ceiling.
What was he doing here? How long would he have to hold out in this room of blinding, burnished, specious smiles? Not a single guest was standing alone. All stood in small conversational rings. There were no outcasts. Every guest had been carefully chosen for his or her ability to fit in. Apparently, to stand alone, as he preferred to do, would be unforgivable.
But then his observant eye picked out several tense faces hidden behind the grins of forced glee. The Hardings had indulged in a certain malevolent sadism. They’d invited the most hated critics of several artists in the room— then mercilessly abandoned them to one another.
David became aware of a warm presence nearby.
He turned at the touch of fingertips on his elbow. A sweetly scented woman had materialized at his side. Their eyes locked. He had never seen eyes like hers: a deep sapphire blue, set under long, black lashes and slender plucked eyebrows. Captivating eyes, mesmerizing. But for all their wide-open charm, they held an unmistakable shrewdness. Despite their apparent warmth, they chilled him: a knowledgeable woman, but predatory. Her platinum-blond hair was done in finger waves that framed her face. It was a lovely face, like a doll’s, but faint rings under her eyes and a certain hollowness to her cheeks hinted at an excessively indulgent life. Despite this, her hair still glistened and her ivory skin had a soft luster. Her lips, painted a deep burgundy, were the only points of intense color on her face, and they were moist and provocative. Her shimmering gown could have been liquefied gold, the way it flowed over her curves. She was, without doubt, one of the most alluring women in the room, but she left him cold. She smiled, flashing two rows of tiny polished teeth.
“I’m Nella. You must be David.”
Her voice was husky. She was standing quite close to him. Her scent, a heady mixture of Chanel, gin, and cigarettes, enveloped him. She extended her hand and he took it. Her hand was small and soft––
Like a leopard’s paw–– with smooth, sharp nails that gleamed in the demi-light.
“Touched that you could make it,”
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